Emily's Ghost (22 page)

"Never," he said, as if
the resort island were somehow beneath contempt. "There's no decent
wages to be made on an island."

"Don't worry. I doubt that
anyone's going to offer you a job in this economy," she said in a
deadpan voice.

He broke into a
good-humored grin. "I like that in ye. Ye're a good woman, Emily
Bowditch. I begin to believe in ye."

That's my problem,
too,
she thought. She was pleased at the
compliment nonetheless.

Two hours later an express
courier handed Emily an envelope with a ticket to a fund-raiser for
Senator Lee Alden to be held on Friday at the Copley Plaza. The
price for cocktails and a handshake with the senator was five
hundred dollars, which basically meant only one thing to Emily:
that she couldn't possibly dress as well as the high rollers who
were actually paying to get in. It was a silly concern, she knew,
but it occupied the better part of her day.

For the first time in her
life she wanted to make an impression. It mattered. She was very
aware that she'd never had a bona fide date with Lee Alden, much
less bothered to dress up for him -- unless she counted her
palmist's getup. Nicole Alden, beautiful concert pianist, would've
been dazzling at a top- drawer fund-raiser. So would Cara Miles.
And so, come hell or high water, would Emily Bowditch.

By the time Friday came
Emily had spent several hundred dollars on a complete overhaul
(hair, nails, facial) and a silk and beaded dress from an upscale
thrift shop in the Back Bay. The dress was a sensational buy, a
designer original; she used it to rationalize the extravagant
amount she'd forked over without a whimper at Phillip's, the trendy
salon on Newbury Street that Cara had recommended.

On Friday evening Emily
slipped the dress over her head, stared at herself in the
full-length mirror, and decided once again that the crystal
necklace she wore was guiding nearly every step of her life. The
dress was the perfect choice. It looked as if it were made to
accessorize the necklace. The subtle swirl of colors in the
patterned silk -- mauve and rose and faded pink -- perfectly
complemented the iridescent hues of the crystal, and the beaded
cummerbund offset the heavy costume effect of the chain around her
neck. Best of all, the dress fitted like a glove.

Emily ran her fingers
through her new, short, sophisticated hair, still a little dazzled
by the effect. Phillip, a magician of sorts, had tracked the
natural fall of her hair with offhand precision; when he was
finished cutting away the excess, all that remained was a soft
brown frame that showed her cheekbones to perfection. He'd made a
fuss about her cheekbones. She had no idea that her cheekbones were
worth fussing over. And now as a bonus her eyes looked larger, her
lips fuller, her skin more pale and creamy.

I could get used to
this,
she thought guiltily, touching up
her lip gloss.
To being rich and pampered
and dressed to kill.
For now she decided
to enjoy the pretense. She'd be turning back into Cinderella soon
enough -- probably in about twenty-four hours, when her hair needed
its first maintenance shampoo. She scooped up the tiny handbag she
was carrying for the night and laughed; it was such a useless
little thing.
Maybe I should've just
donated the cost of this make-over to Lee's campaign; it'd be a
heck of a lot more practical.

When she walked into her
living room, Fergus was there, watching the evening news. He was
shaking his head in sorrow over the latest shooting of an innocent
bystander; she knew that of all the depressing developments in the
past century, it was the wholesale arming of the nation that
bothered him the most.

"If the Soviets can beat
their swords into plowshares," he began, "then I don't see
why—"

He stopped in mid-sentence
as he beheld her. She saw the pained expression on his face change
to stunned surprise, then to a look that she had trouble reading,
she who was learning to read him so well. It was a look of
admiration, but it was more than that. There was something
elemental in it, something that she would not have expected from a
ghost. It was very much the look of a man taking the measure of a
woman. Yet it was even more than
that
.
There
was a hint of class warfare in it, as if he were going to have to
tip his hat to her and didn't much care for the idea.

Whatever it was, it
flustered her. She looked away and said flippantly, "Well, I'm
off."

"Ye would do well to go
slowly, my friend," he said softly.

She smiled shyly and
answered, "I will. Good night, Fergus." She left feeling warm and
reassured; it was nice to have a friend.

****

The Copley Plaza was not
quite Emily's cup of tea. The gilding, the marble, the trompe
l'oeil paintings but especially the maître d' in turban and tuxedo
conspired to make her feel very much like what she was: a tourist
sneaking a look into how the other half lived.

No, indeed,
Emily thought, surveying the glittering and
black-tied group mingling comfortably with their own.
It ain
'
t
exactly
the rubber-chicken circuit.
For a moment
she faltered; the air in the room was rippling with too much money,
too much power. She backed into someone -- good Lord, the
governor's wife -- apologized and moved on, searching for the guest
of honor. She wished she had Stanley Cooper alongside. She could
look terribly amused as he regaled her with too, too delicious
gossip about the swells all around her. And she'd have something to
do besides juggle a silly little handbag, a napkin, a shrimp, and a
glass of champagne.

As it was, there was no
one at her side, and she had to fend for herself. She located the
senator, engulfed in a tight circle of well-wishers. She saw the
back of the top of his head and heard the low murmur of his voice
and the instant, inevitable laughter from those around him. It was
all pretty much as she'd expected: King Arthur and his minions. The
laughter sounded unforced; the minions genuinely liked their king.
She tried not to feel depressed about it.

"He has them eating out of
his hands, as usual."

She turned to see two
women -- one blond, one raven, both thin, both tall -- comparing
notes on the senator. Miss Manners would've told Emily to move
politely out of earshot. Miss Manners could jump in the lake. Emily
edged a bit closer, hanging on every word.

"Gloria had him to a
dinner party last month, paired off with
her.
He had no idea she'd got a
divorce since he'd seen her last. I think it was a shabby trick,
but Gloria said he was wrapped up in her all evening."

"He couldn't have been too
wrapped up; I don't see Gloria here tonight."

"Darling, didn't I say?
Gloria lives in D.C. now."

The two women moved closer
to the senator's circle, probing for a break in the
crowd.

Well, nuts to this,
thought Emily.
Let
Gloria have him. I'd rather go home and watch
Perfect Strangers
with
Fergus.
She was eyeing the door when she
was approached by Jim Whitewood, the senator's aide. Had he been
there all along?

He was as slippery smooth
as ever. "Miss Bowditch!
Quelle
surprise!
Let me introduce you to one or
two people." He took her by the arm and led her away from the
senator's circle and up to a lively group of men and women, all of
them younger than she was. It was like being seated at the
children's table at Thanksgiving.

"So tell us, Emily," said
one of them, a knockdown gorgeous blonde in shrink-wrapped black.
"How do
you
know
the senator?"

"He's a hard man not to
know," Emily answered evasively.

"I just met him and I am
in
love,"
the
blonde said, followed by an all-too-stagy dip that showed off her
thighs.

Another one of the women
said, "He belongs to Daddy's club. I've wanted him since I was
twelve. He was married then," she said, raising her glass to her
date with a seductive smile, "but he isn't now."

"You're trying to make me
jealous, Tiff," her young man said. "But it won't work. Besides
money, what've you got in common? He reads; you party. He sails;
you shop. He thinks the flag's for saluting; you think it's for a
jacket lining. He's the jealous type; you like a man on each arm at
all times. Get real, Tiff. You'd be bored in a week."

Tiffany was eyeing the
senator over Emily's shoulder. "Maybe you're right," she said,
sighing. "But what a week."

They fell to chatting
about other things, leaving Emily to feign an interest. Since she'd
never been spring skiing in Aspen, that was hard to do. Her mind
began to wander. It was becoming pretty obvious that to talk to Lee
Alden, she'd have to take a number. To go to bed with him would, of
course, mean taking another number and probably paying money down.
It was amazing. She'd never known a sexual icon before, but as far
as she could tell, Lee Alden was right up there with Warren Beatty,
Mick Jagger, Paul Newman, and New Kids on the Block. His appeal cut
across all ages and all incomes. From Swansea Mall to Copley Plaza,
he was the man to beat. His reelection was a shoo-in.

Emily was yanked from her
reverie by Heather, of the shrink-wrapped dress. "Oh,
no,"
Heather wailed,
"look who my mother's brought. Darryl Douglas. God, I can't stand
him. He's, like,
such
a creep."

Emily became very still.
Darryl Douglas was one of Boston's most discreet slumlords, hiding
modestly behind half a dozen different corporate blinds. After a
week of work she'd tracked him down and presented him with a list
of complaints from his tenants, who'd come to her in desperation.
He threatened to sue her for harassment and threw her out of his
offices. The repairs were now being done, but not exactly with
enthusiasm.

"I've enjoyed meeting you
all. Please excuse me," she said politely, and beat a retreat. It
was time to go home. It had been very educational. She wasn't sorry
she'd come, but she saw no point in staying. Cinderella had managed
to get to the ball, but clearly she would not be dancing with the
prince. With a kind of nothing-to-lose recklessness she elbowed her
way through the crowd until she caught Lee's eye.

"Senator," she said,
extending her hand to him. "Good luck in the campaign."

He held her hand a
fraction longer than was necessary. "You look very nice," he
said.

Very nice. That's all
she'd been able to afford. What did it take to rate a
you-look-sensational? A credit line at the Bank of
Switzerland?

"Thank you, Senator," she
said, and turned to go.

But her luck had run out.
She found herself eyeball to eyeball with a complete stranger, a
woman older than she but stunningly preserved, who put her hand on
Emily's wrist and said, "Darling, it looks
much
better on you than it did on
me."

It was like being pinched,
hard, by a passerby. It took Emily's breath away. She looked
askance at the woman and fled, unsure whether Lee had heard the
remark or not. But she did hear his voice before she was out of
earshot, saying, "Fiona! You look fantastic."

She should have seen it
coming,
she told herself over and over in
the cab. Buying a designer original at a secondhand shop was the
dumbest faux pas in the world. Probably it had appeared -- on that
woman's body -- in every society column in Boston. Dumb, dumb,
dumb! Had they been snickering all evening long? She should've
shopped at K mart; no danger there of the dress being recognized.
Then she remembered that her dress had been displayed in the thrift
shop window for all society to remark on: "Oh, look, Fiona's
Armani. A really stunning creation. But of course, she's worn it
once." Emily buried her head in her hands. She had tried to be
someone she was not, and God had punished her. It was as simple as
that.

When she got home, Fergus
was watching
Wall Street Week.
"Back already?" he said, surprised.

She slumped in the side
chair and let the hated little clutch bag drop to the floor. "Yep.
Big day tomorrow. We're taking the first ferry out of Woods
Hole."

"Fine with me," he said,
zapping Louis Rukeyser into oblivion. He turned to her with a
friendly smile. "And were ye the belle of the evening?"

"I would have been," she
said dryly, "if they'd taken out every other female between twenty
and forty and shot her."

"Quite the shindig, then.
And the senator? What were his thoughts on it all?"

"You mean, did he break
through the admiring throng and take me in his arms? As a matter of
fact, he did not."

"What
did
he do?"

"He said, 'You look very
nice.'"

"I see." He nodded
meditatively. "Well, then." He continued to nod. "Ye had a nice
time."